


everything you want is wrong

by writewrongs



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Begging, Blow Jobs, Dirty Talk, Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-09-06 17:52:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8763025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writewrongs/pseuds/writewrongs
Summary: “You're trembling.” Graves says after a moment. “Am I upsetting you?”

 “No,” Credence breathes, “The opposite. Please, keep talking.” 
the one where Grindelgraves relieves Credence's panic attack with sweet dirty talk and sucking him off. plenty of emotional manipulation here, folks.





	

**Author's Note:**

> more Graves talking dirty for you all. but this time it's certainly Grindelgraves, taking full advantage of how Credence responds to positive attention. please enjoy.
> 
> title is from Honey & the Moon by Joseph Arthur.

Graves appears in his room without a sound. It's dark, but Credence can make out the gleam of his eyes. He cannot get over the man. In the small hours of the morning, he feels as if he's dying, the darkness seems to shrink around him, trapping him – but he wants Graves here, and so Graves is here. Why?

“How are you, my boy?

Credence shakes his head, unable to answer. He's pacing his room as quietly as he can, clutching the pendant Graves gave him at their last meeting. He can't stay still like this, his body almost vibrating with misery – he wants to scream, bash his fists bloody against the wall, tear off his own skin. He can only clench his fists and let fat tears roll down his cheeks.

“Oh, Credence.” Graves comes to him, takes him in his arms. He's warm, despite the frigid weather, and the thick wool of his coat feels comforting against Credence's cheek. “It's all right, my darling. I've cast a muffling charm.”

“I'm so sorry,” he whimpers, feeling his tears soak into the fabric. 

“What are you sorry for?” Graves is stroking his back through the thin material of his pyjamas. Credence's fingers are blue with cold. “My poor boy. Tell me.”

“I can't sleep,” Credence stutters, “Nightmares, and it's so cold, I missed you, and I'm so unhappy.”

He could bite out his tongue for being so candid. But Graves continues stroking him as if he's a cat, from his neck, down the curve of his spine.

“How can I help?” Graves asks softly.

Usually, when he feels so tightly wound and panicked, Credence will take the blame for something one of the children has done, or deliberately lose his leaflets. This means he'll be punished – and the pain of a beating seems to soothe the pain inside him. 

“Hurt me,” he whispers, not intending Graves to hear. 

“What did you say? Here...” Graves leads him to sit down on the edge of his narrow bed. “Did you say 'hurt me'?”

“Being beaten, it – helps...” Credence trails off. He hasn't the words to explain what he means.

“I see,” Graves tells him, his thumb caressing the back of Credence's neck as Credence leans and sighs against him. “I've felt similar things myself. Physical pain distracts from mental pain.” 

Credence nods, bunching his pyjama sleeve in his hand so he can wipe his nose with it when Graves isn't looking. 

“Tell me how you want me to help.” 

Credence wants to say that Graves has already helped, just by coming when he wanted him, but he isn't sure that answer would please the man. So he nudges his head against Graves, chasing warmth and affection.

“Would you like me to tell you a story that I think may help?” Graves asks.

Credence nods.

“All right. Do you know what it means to be submissive?”

“Subservient. Obedient.” Credence says, although he's sure this isn't what Graves meant. He's sold himself on the streets before, needing money for food, and men seemed to like it when he was pliant and did as they asked without question. When he moaned for them and said the words they demanded to hear. He's thought about doing this with Mr Graves, oh yes. 

“I mean sexually. You know all about that, don't you, my boy?”

Credence blushes painfully. He did tell Graves about it, when they first met – Graves had taken him for a hot meal and given him several large tots of gin to warm him – and the result was his spilling almost all of his dreadful secrets to the man. Now Graves knows more about him than anyone – even his own mother. 

“Now, I had a wonderful submissive recently. He was like you, in many ways.” Graves' voice is soft, low, and Credence sighs again. “He was my plaything. I spoiled and made love to him. Every day. I had him service my friends, and I was so proud of him. His body was mine.”

Credence thinks about this. He doesn't picture the man Graves is speaking about, but Graves himself, naked as the day he was born, entwined with a younger pale body. His breath comes faster.

“Did you ever beat him?” Credence dares to ask.

“When he misbehaved, I took him across my knee. And I would kiss him there, after.”

“Kiss him there?”

“Yes. You've been with men, Credence. Did no one ever put their mouth on you that way?”

Credence shakes his head. He's never heard of such a thing. Of course, he knows men like a warm mouth on their prick. He knows it better than most. He finds himself wondering how Mr Graves would react if Credence offered that. Would he want it? Would Credence be good enough for such a man, and – oh, heavens – would he touch Credence in return?

He subtly tries to angle his body away so that Graves will not see how his prick is swollen with need at his words, showing clearly against the seam of his pyjama pants. Surely, though, Graves would not be entirely surprised? He chose to speak of this, after all. 

“You're trembling.” Graves says after a moment. “Am I upsetting you?”

“No,” Credence breathes, “The opposite. Please, keep talking.” 

He's ashamed to beg, but the panic and misery has all but left his body and been replaced by this warm yearning. He wants it to last.

“I have thought of you in that way,” Graves tells him. “Part of me wants to claim you, precious boy. I'm sorry if this is inappropriate.”

“No, please...” Credence moans, and Graves turns to him, fingers soft under his chin, tilting it up to look at him. Credence's eyes are half-closed, his lips parted. What does Graves mean when he says 'claim you'? Graves regards him with those gleaming brown eyes. 

And kisses him.

Slowly, deliberately, his mouth opening, and Credence mirrors him. Graves slips his tongue into his mouth and licks into him. It's like a drink of whiskey, warming him from his mouth to his heart. He moans, shudders, finds himself clinging to Graves like he's drowning and Graves is his life raft.

“I care so much about you, Credence.” Graves says, “I feel profoundly possessive of you. Since the day we met.”

Credence is almost swooning as Graves holds him, laying him back against his hard, narrow mattress. Graves goes to his knees, warm hand cupping Credence's erection, which aches and throbs against his palm. Credence moans, rubbing himself against the contact. Graves shrugs off his coat, draping it over the metal bedstead, and his hands are on Credence's thighs, his hips, tugging his pyjama pants down. Credence whimpers in shame as his hard cock is bared to the cold air, leaning up on his elbows to tell Graves he doesn't have to, no, _he's_ the one who should be on his knees for Graves. 

“Oh, my darling. I want your taste in my mouth,” Graves says softly. He grips Credence's prick in his hand, strokes him, spreading the pre-cum that's leaking all over them both. His tongue slides on Credence's skin, from where his hand is holding Credence to the tip and sucking on him gently. Credence presses a hand to his mouth, biting on the back of it so he won't make such a noise. Graves moans, though, a sound like 'mmm', and takes Credence deeper into his throat. His mouth is searing heat, silken wet, and it feels better than Credence could ever have imagined. No wonder those men paid so handsomely if this is what it feels like. A thousand times better than the false half-climaxes he experiences in his sleep sometimes, or when he ruts against his mattress in desperation, it's never _enough_. This is heaven – Graves humming around him, caressing his stomach and thighs, reaching up to brush his nipple through his shirt. It's everything, too much, not enough...

“I want you to cum.” Graves commands, taking his mouth away only so he can grip Credence in his hand and stroke him. “Cum in my mouth, Credence.”

“I – but...”

“I need it.”

He doesn't want this to end, not now, and not ever, but he can't hold back.

“You'll cum when I say to, like a good slut, won't you, Credence?”

“Y-yes...”

“Now.”

And Credence's cock twitches, quivers, begins to spill, and Graves' mouth is there again. He takes Credence down with practised ease, throat working him like something divine, and swallows every drop. Credence cries out, a long wail of Graves' name, his mouth open and glistening against the bitten, bruised back of his hand. His body burns in waves, wringing his climax out of him. It feels so good, he finds tears on his face, pooling in the hollow of his neck.

“Sweet boy,” Graves sighs, licking his lips appreciatively. He cleans Credence's prick with his tongue, keeping him hard. It hurts, but it feels wonderful too. Graves mouths at the spot of pre-cum that has soaked into Credence's pyjama pants, humming to himself in a pleased manner. And then he kisses him, hard and wanting. Credence feels selfish and awful – so consumed with his own pleasure that he didn't even think Mr Graves might want something, too. His hand, like a startled bird, moves blindly to the apex of Graves' thighs and he moans when he finds the hot, stony thickness of his cock.

“Darling, leave it.” Graves moans, pulling Credence's hand away by the wrist. “I must give you this without asking for anything in return. I want you to see that you don't always owe the world.”

“I want to,” Credence says eagerly, “Let me touch you. Please.”

Graves gently extricates himself from Credence's embrace, breathing heavily. He picks up his coat, and Credence climbs fully onto his bed, feeling like a child that has been denied a favourite toy. He clutches his knees, trying to stave off the panic that wants to eat him again. 

“Next time, my boy.” Graves says, voice strained. “Next time, I think I shall die if you don't.”

When he's gone, Credence curls up, recalling the warmth of Graves' mouth and his body, and falls asleep with his mouth shaping the words _next time_.


End file.
